


Playing God

by forsakenfuckery (diashann)



Category: Gothika (2003)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-26 01:26:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7554802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diashann/pseuds/forsakenfuckery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written Sequel to the 2003 film, GOTHIKA. The story starts fourteen years after the death of Douglas Grey and Miranda is still haunted by the acts that she committed alongside the ghost of Rachel Parsons. But her fear mostly, is not for herself, it is for her daughter Isadora.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Isadora, 14

He stared at me expectantly, and It was typical behavior for someone when you asked them to speak privately. In the awkward silence, he decided to lean against my desk, looking down at me patiently, yet somehow eager, as I sat in my desk chair. "What's this about?" The bass in his voice scared me shitless, I'd zoned out- as usual. What was I supposed to say? Where was I to start? I could already look up into those eyes of his and see the way they already analyzed me. That was the disadvantage of having two psychiatrists for parents, you never knew when they were being straight up or giving you a clinical answer. Clinical answers were different from honest-to-God opinions; clinical answers were what they were supposed to say, answers that had very little place in the real world; and opinions were what they wanted to say, answers that could be your life line in the dog-eat-dog world we all found ourselves in.

"I've been feeling... things," Due to the sudden change in the course of our conversation, I could feel the tension build between us. His face went emotionless and his stance became awkward. "Maybe... maybe you should talk with your mother about this... I wasn't trained for this conversat-" My eyes widened and my ears turned pink at the tips. "OH MY GOD, _EW_. Wh-what do you think I'm talking about?" He cleared his throat, total silence following a noncommittal shrug. "I don't think I should go to camp this year..." Dad was visibly cringing and I had to do my best to stay serious and not crack a smile. "Izzy, I'm serious. If this is some coming-of-age pubescent dilemma you're facing, I'm begging you to talk to your mother about it." I brought my palm to my face in a fit of frustration, "You're scaring me," I joked, trying to hide my laughter. "Yeah? Imagine how I feel. I prayed for a boy."

I looked up at him, a wide grin masking my mouth, "Gee. Thanks, Dad." I noticed that he smiled too. That's how it was with the both of us. For as long as I could remember, it seemed, my laughter and smiles were contagious and my father always got infected. My serious tone returned and his brows merged, he clearly sensed my distress. "I never expected it to be so hard," I said softly, a wary glance given to the man before me, eyes flitting through my thick lashes. He casually rolled up the sleeves of his cotton button-up, his tie already loosened from a hard day of work. He prepared himself to interject my seemingly misguided words, only to be cut off by a new and panicked tone that visibly surprised him as it escaped past my lips. I trembled while exclaiming,"Don't tell mom!"

I saw the pleading look in my father's eyes. He wanted to know what was going on and I sure as hell wouldn't talk to him more in-depth on the subject at hand. "I don't want her to think that I can't be away from home for a few weeks. I just... have this bad feeling." My father, Pete Graham, watched as my eyebrows furrowed from worry and all he could do was nod stiffly. He placed a hand on my shoulder- for support more than anything else- and, to my surprise, it worked quickly to relax me. "You'll have fun at camp. Don't worry about us, we'll be fine." Did I believe him? No, of course not. But I couldn't just out and say _Grandma told me something bad would happen_.

Grandma's dead.

"I love you, Dad." The look he gave me then, was unforgettable. It was a look of unfathomable love and adoration. Or maybe he was just shocked due to the fact that for the past five months I'd been going through my _I'm fourteen and loving my parents or showing affection towards them is gross_ phase. Whatever it was, though, It was in that moment I knew he'd always be there for me. There was a rapping at my bedroom door and in came my mother, eyes wide with excitement and some very obvious anxiety. "Knock, knock. You're going to be late." Miranda Graham, in all her glory. There wasn't a day my mother didn't look beautiful. My father always said that each night, when we slept, Mom was visited by fairies who continued to grant her with eternal beauty. Even as old as I was, somehow, I still believed that story to be true. "All my stuff is packed, I'm ready to hit the road."

"I guess that means I have two hours of extra work before I can kick back and relax. And to think I took off early today," Dad smiled at me, his right hand moving to fist at his dark locks. Of course he wasn't being serious, he would climb Everest from me if need be. According to my Uncle Joe, who wasn't actually my Uncle, I had both my parents wrapped around my finger since birth. I found that slightly ironic seeing as how, apparently, when they found out about me- their unexpected and highly unplanned bundle of joy- they nearly pissed bricks. Part of me thinks that the only reason they didn't want children to begin with was because they saw it as, not only pure narcissism but, cruel and unusual punishment. The world was an insanely messed up place and they probably feared, after working with patients at Woodward, that their baby girl would end up in one of those cells.

Mom laughed, a sound that could literally silence a room in complete awe. I had blanked out apparently. I spun around in my desk chair to face my embracing parents more directly. A tiny smile possessed my lips at the sound of my mother pleading for the opportunity to spend two hours in the car, driving me to Camp Victory. Dad smiled down at her, "No, it's okay. I'll do it, you two spend too much time together as it is, I barely get a second alone with her." That was a lie. I hadn't spent any time alone with Mom in months, I always found a way to weasel out of it. In reality, the truth was, I neglected my mother and showered my father with bonding time. There was just something about my mother, something about the way my friends talked about her, something in the eyes of all the other moms at the PTA meetings, something I didn't trust completely. I confided in Dad about it a few weeks ago, and funny thing, he lied to me- right to my face- and told me to ignore everyone.

I couldn't ignore it.

"You two be safe, then," was all my mother could bring herself to say, defeat lacing her voice. She glanced at me and, for a moment, I was determined to hold the eye contact. Mom looked away and placed a kiss upon her husband's lips. It was behavior like that that I couldn't ignore. Any other mother, one in their right mind, would have demanded quality time; would have demanded explanations for my crudeness. Unless she had something to hide and didn't want to press the issue of my dismissal.

I couldn't ignore it. 


	2. Pete, 42

It didn't take long to get her fifty bags into the car, I'm exaggerating but it felt like at least fifty bags. "Randa, If I'm not back in two hours, the girls have me captive to give me pedicures and such," I touched her face to make sure that this life we'd built was real, that the human being we'd created was real. As broody as Isadora could be, she was more like Miranda than she admitted and that made me all the more fascinated with her. Miranda pouted only lightly as our hormonal teenager brushed past us and off the porch, surely on her way to my navy Ford Fusion at one end of the drive. "Aren't you forgetting something," I called out to her and a few seconds later she managed a half-hearted, "Bye Mom!"

Miranda's gaze was stuck to the passenger side door as it opened and shut, "She hates me." My eyes took her in and, on instinct, I dived into seven feet of water to save her from the thoughts she wanted to drown herself in, "How could anyone hate you?" A smile danced at her lips, but was gone as quickly as it had appeared and I instantly knew where things were about to head. Miranda sighed, her hands finding the hair at her scalp and clutching. I was more alert at the sight of this action, I hadn't seen her do it in years; before Isadora was born and she was still plagued with the things that the ghost of Rachel Parsons forced her to do. "I'm being punished, Pete. For those things I did to Doug. You should see the way people look at me; the way they look at her... and she may not know the whole story now, but what do you think these girls do at camp?"

I scratched at my temple, not fully giving up on trying to charm her out of her self-loathing mood, "Cheer? I mean, it is _cheer_ camp." She looked at me, clearly not in a joking mood or happy with my interrupting her, so I sighed softly and raised an eyebrow in question. "They tell ghost stories, horror stories, and they gossip. She'll find out the whole thing and she'll hate me and distance herself from me more than she already does." I was silent. I didn't exactly know how to make her feel better... how to ensure that our daughter wouldn't ever have to know about Rachel Parsons or Douglas Grey. Sure, it was a sheltered life that we'd given to Isadora - one that she could grow to hate and despise us for once she learned the truth- but it was for her own good.

Placing my hands onto her shoulders, I spoke with conviction, "Look, I'll talk to her on the way up to Victory. You have nothing to worry about." Miranda reached up and stroked my cheek, eyes narrowing slightly when the sound of a blaring horn interrupted the words she had been about to whisper. A head stuck out of the passenger window, a spill of brown hair cascading past her shoulders and wide light brown eyes coming into view. "DAD, C'MON!" I chewed hard at my lower lip and looked from Isadora to Miranda, pressing my lips to her forehead and whispering, "Don't worry so much," as I pulled away. I walked from the porch, and she didn't say anything as I left.

* * *

 

* * *

 

 

"You excited to see your friends before school starts back?"

"..I told you, I don't really want to go to Victory."

Obviously, she was trying my patience but I had all the patience in the world as soon as I clocked out of Woodward. My eyes were trained ahead of us on the quick flow of traffic, but every so often I could feel her gaze move onto me. "What's going on with you? Is this about your mother?" My words had obviously struck a nerve. She flinched. "Wh-what? Dad, no," She turned slightly to face me in her seat, seatbelt still well intact, "Why would this have anything to do with Mom?" I gave a knowing expression and watched the knot form in her throat as she swallowed, simultaneously watching the road, making sure not to miss my exit. "I don't know, the two of you just happen to be acting moodier than usual. It can't be a coincidence."

"Good work, Dad. You missed the exit."

On the inside, I was seething. Isadora was good at changing the subject and avoiding psychiatric line of questioning, and of course she was. With Miranda and I as parents, if she wanted to keep any secrets at all well into teenhood, she would have to be. Then, I was obviously peeved I'd missed the exit I had been desperately trying to be on look-out for. "Now I'll miss orientation. Again. Just like last year," Isadora muttered, beside me, almost breathlessly as she gazed out the window.

I almost couldn't contain my momentary distaste for fatherhood, in that moment, but being a psychiatrist helped me build an impressive pokerface from scratch. "I'm sorry about that, sweetie. You know I am. I don't intentionally miss exits. I'm just worried about you, kid." I looked over at her before turning onto a service drive exit that had been built since last year, probably because some schmuck was tired of seeing me miss the previous exit. "Hey, look! See, you'll get to orientation this year. How cool is this new passage way? It'll just take me a sec to swing around instead of having to drive two extra miles to get back onto the freeway." The mock excitement in my voice made her bang her head against the window once, in frustration, while muttering something along the lines of 'kill me now'.

As I pulled up onto the campground past the two tall welcoming totem poles at the entrance, I was greeted by the sight of parents of equal or lesser value wishing their offspring good luck on their eight week endeavor to rock climb, ward off ticks, and actually communicate more than a few syllables to the opposite sex. Because, of course, there were male cheerleaders. I looked over at Isadora fondly only to find the annoyance on her face as she watched her friends and their parents exchanging not-so-subtle goodbyes. "They're acting like they'll never see each other again." I reached to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, wondering for a moment if mine and Miranda's profession had hardwired Isadora to be lesser to her counterparts in this regard. Was she emotionally lacking? The irony would be too much to bear. Sighing as she finally tore her eyes away from a grotesquely dressed Stepford Wife wannabe who was clinging to her scantily clad daughter to look at me, I said, "That's just how life is, especially for these type of people. When you become a parent, you'll understand."

Stubborn as always, Isadora crossed her arms and raised a single brow at me. "How about you explain it to me now." I could argue that she'd miss orientation but that helpful little service drive exit gave her more than enough time to settle in. I gnawed on my lower lip, as if in thought, for a few moments before bringing my full attention back to her. Part of me suspected that the teen already knew what I was going to say, she was good like that; always a step ahead of her old man. For all the ways she was like Miranda, she was like me as well. "Well… people tend to get sappy with goodbyes because you never know when it'll be the last time you ever speak to someone. In patients, I see this sort of residual regret all the time. They hate themselves because of the words they never got to say or the last things they did. And then it's common knowledge that wealthy people often live vicariously through their children," I gestured toward the Stepford Wife and her daughter who wore an annoyed expression. "Then, add that to the fact that you'll be gone for two whole months. Do you know how scary it is to send your child away for two months? This person you've created; this huge chunk of you, wandering around in the wilderness without you?"

"Careful, Dad. You're starting to sound a bit possessive." She chuckled and I almost forgot what I was supposed to be chatting to her about in the first place. Just as I was about to get serious again her best friend from school, Gigi, walked past the front of my Fusion and waved excitedly. Her blonde hair was up in a swishy ponytail and as she looked at me, the blush on her face could probably be seen from space. If her massive textbook crush on me hadn't been such an ego boost, I'd probably be more than just a little uncomfortable. "Can I go?" Isadora's voice brought me back to the moment and I looked at her, reading the confusion on her face for exactly what it was as she reached over and pressed the button to pop the trunk. "Izzy… wait. I just want you to know that we'll _both_ miss you and that when you get home we can discuss anything you want. Don't be afraid to talk to us."

She got out of the car without answering me, went around back to retrieve her bags, slammed the trunk closed, and bounded back to the passenger side window that was now rolled down. "I'm not afraid to talk to you, Dad," She scowled lightly, "You talk for a living so coming to you guys is relatively easy, it's the phrasing that's impossible." I scrunched my brow in confusion but before I could ask her what she meant, Gigi came up beside her at the window, "Hey, Mr. Graham!"

* * *

 

* * *

 

 

After having a very uncomfortable ten minute conversation with Gigi's very well-informed parents, I placed a sly kiss on Isadora's head and vanished from the premises an entire two hours later than intended. I couldn't get what she had said out of my mind. Well, then again there were a lot of things I currently could not process and filter out of my noggin: The adoring look Gigi kept shooting me; the daggers of hatred her father wouldn't let up on; then of course, the most troubling and not-so-disturbing thing was what Isadora had said to me at the car. It made me think back to this morning and her odd behavior. It all sort of… _clicked_. The conversation from earlier, the word exchange at the car, it all made sense.

Now all that was left to do was confide in Miranda, bounce ideas off of one another about what could possibly be going on with our daughter. A jolt of excitement shot through me like a mother's milk through her baby. It wasn't often that the Mrs. And I got to collaborate on anything. After what happened years ago, we decided it was best for us to keep our patient theories to ourselves. I'd never quite forgiven myself for not believing that the whole ghost scenario was a legitimate thing. But this wasn't a patient or a case, this was our daughter. Yes, the brainstorming and diagnosis would be nothing but professional but there was bound to be pleasure mixed in somewhere; Miranda was far too attractive when it came to her lengthily detailed analysis.

For all my worry over Isadora, my determination to get to the bottom of things formed a crooked smile on my lips all the way home. When I pulled into the wraparound driveway, I noticed that the lights were out inside the two story work of architectural gold. It was an unusual sight because no matter how much Miranda tried, she could never welcome complete darkness, not after the things she'd done; the things she'd seen. Once out of my vehicle, I locked it up, heading for the front door with slight fervor.

Upon opening the door, all was silent and there was a stagnant metallic smell playing at my nose. It was awfully familiar but I couldn't place it because my thoughts were on nothing but finding my wife. "Miranda", I almost shouted her name but I forced myself to be calm as I flicked on the foyer light and gently closed and quietly locked the mahogany front door. I hung my jacket on it's usual hook beside the door and crept further into the house, flicking on lights as I went in search and it wasn't until I'd checked almost every room in our home, with the exception of one, that I'd found myself in the kitchen. I switched on the light, which flickered at first, and the sight before me was one that I'll never quite forget.

Miranda laid gutted and bloodied on the hardwood floor.


End file.
